


Cutaways

by KalanchoeBlossfeldiana



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Twin Peaks Fusion, Arguing, Gen, Mentions of Owls, Microcassettes, Missing Persons, Mystery, Rated T for swearing mostly, Red Room (Twin Peaks), Strange Dreams, Twin Peaks References, its a fusion au in a worldbuilding sense more than anything, unless i change my mind which is possible, you can absolutely read it if you havent seen the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:18:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16332770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalanchoeBlossfeldiana/pseuds/KalanchoeBlossfeldiana
Summary: Two words written on a cheap postcard. That was all it took for Stan to drop everything and head north.(A Twin Peaks inspired au that I never finished set in 1982, in which Ford is missing and Stan tries to piece together what happened using his estranged research assistant, more than a few cassette tapes, and a lot of determination.)





	Cutaways

Stan wasn't sure what he expected to find at the address hastily written on his brother’s postcard, but an empty house with an unlocked door in the Middle of Absolute Nowhere, Oregon was pretty low on his list of possibilities.

"Ford? Ford!" Stan called through the vacant halls. He stood awkwardly in the foyer, unsure what to do next.

Normally he probably would have been less... prying, maybe wait an hour or so before letting himself in, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Besides, it was cold outside and the heating in his car was starting to fail.

Why wasn't Ford here? He knew he had the right address, he'd been repeating it over and over in his head nonstop the whole week. Ford’s handwriting was messy, but even after a decade of radio silence he could read it as well as anything.

He decided to check around the house, leaving the foyer and going room to room looking for the single reason he was here. What he could only assume was Ford’s living room consisted of more science-y looking gizmos and stacks of paper than furniture, which admittedly didn’t surprise Stan one bit. Part of him was glad Ford decided to stick with science even after he…

The next few rooms were just as cluttered and incomprehensible. Stan couldn’t help but marvel at the entire fucking dinosaur skull sitting in one. Was it real? Where did Ford even get that?

He even went up to check the attic, having passed its entrance several times before realizing yes, that terrifying pile of paper and calculations was actually hiding a staircase. No one was up there either.

Stan has to say, who the fuck did Ford kill to afford such nice stained glass windows? The crystalline eye of providence stared unblinkingly onto the floor, casting a red glow across the entire room. Eerie, sure, especially in an empty, barely heated house that seemed to become more of a mystery with every turn, but beautiful and expensive looking nonetheless.

Eventually Stan headed back down and found his way to the kitchen.

The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and once again, there were more papers and gadgets lying about than furniture. Or food, for that matter. Stan opened the fridge, telling himself that hey, he _could_ be in there, but knowing it was just because he hadn’t eaten since last night. The fridge was almost empty, the few items inside spoiled and reeking.

A cup of coffee on the kitchen table caught Stan’s eye. He picked it up, examining its contents.

The coffee was nearly completely dried up, forming a sticky mass at the bottom. Ford always liked it with extra sugar. Evidently, it had been there for a while.

...Would they ever get the chance to just fucking _talk_ to each other? It was like the universe was conspiring against letting that happen. Maybe this was fate or karma or something just fucking with him. _Surprise! Your brother might maybe be considering burying the hatchet. Sike! He was abducted by aliens, or bigfoot, or maybe just gave you a wrong address. Sorry, bud._

He guessed he might deserve this.

His eye trailed back to the table and he noticed a stain he didn’t see before, partially obscured by a pile of napkins. He pushed them to aside, letting a few drift to the floor. What he was left with was a big, dried, red-brown stain. Was that… was that blood?

Fear was creeping into Stanley's mind now. Was Ford in more trouble than he let on? Did something happen to him? Did someone hurt him? Maybe even take him away? Did Stan take too long to get here? Stan suddenly wished he’d speeded on just a few more roads.

Stan took a deep breath. He didn’t know for sure. He didn’t know anything for sure. He didn’t even know if it was blood, or even if it was from a human for that matter. It _was_ a kitchen. Underused and nonfunctional, but a kitchen. Ford could have just nicked his finger while cutting something. Ford could be fine. He wouldn’t know until he found him.

Ford wasn’t in the kitchen. There were still a few rooms left to check. Focus on that.

Stan was walking down one of the more dimly lit hallways when an elaborately carved door pulled him from his thoughts. Seriously, when did Ford get so interested in home decor? Where did he get the money to get stuff like this?

The door opened without any resistance, revealing a small room with a shag carpet and some furniture which seemed to actually be usable. Was this Ford’s bedroom? There wasn't a bed, but the room had the only functional couch Stan had seen so far. Was Ford _seriously_ sleeping on a couch? Who buys stained glass windows and not a bed?

Stan could already imagine Ford trying to defend his awful sleeping habits like he used to in high school. Lots of 'I have too much work right now's and 'I'm not _that_ tired's. A smile tugged at Stan's mouth, but the nostalgia was quickly extinguished when it hit him that Ford wasn’t in here either, and unless Ford had some secret underground lair it was the last room unchecked.

Stan took a few steps into the room and flopped onto the couch.

Fuck. What now?

Stan was about to get up and recheck every room in the house when a black box on a desk caught his eye. He got up and walked over to it.

It was one of those handheld microcassette recorders. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. The cassette itself is unlabeled, but the machine has a small piece of masking tape bearing the words 'ad astra per aspera' along the back.

Stan rewound the tape as far as it would go and hit play.

There was a static-y pause, but it was quickly interrupted by Ford's voice. The voice was a bit deeper than the one Stan knew forever ago, but still recognizable.

_The date is... January 4th, 1982.  I've decided to take a colleague's suggestion and use audio documentation for parts of my research. Now to begin: Although the typical migration patterns of Bubo virginianus, better known as the great horned owl, are-_

Stan stopped the tape. Yeah, sorry Ford but there's no way he's listening to the rest of that thing. At least not until he's sure there's no other option. Besides what kind of weirdo names an entire species of bird ‘virginianus?’ Pocketing the device, along with a crumpled twenty dollar bill he found hidden behind a stapler (he’d pay Ford back. Probably. Maybe.), Stan made his way back to the foyer.

Once again, now what? His brother was nowhere to be found, and ‘please come’ with an address slapped on the back exactly give him much to go off of.

Stan fiddled with the zipper on his jacket as he thought.

Maybe some of the townsfolk would at least have an idea where he would be? It was a reach, but it was the only idea he had. He needed to go into town for food anyway.

Shrugging, Stan exited the house.

 

* * *

   
It seemed quiet out, but that could just be because people generally tried to stay indoors when it's about twenty degrees out and dropping.

The town seemed to be more of a hamlet than anything, having the bare minimum of what it needed to be sustainable. There was a post office and an lumber company and a cozy little street lined with stores and businesses of mild to moderate importance, and on the outskirts of town, a convenience mart. Stan pulled into the convenience mart’s parking lot, figuring it was as good a place to start as any.

Stan entered the ‘Dusk 2 Dawn’ and was greeted by the sight of an elderly couple behind the counter loudly arguing with what was very obviously a teenager over whether or not the kid’s ID was fake (it was). Stan loitered around the store a bit, staring at the off-brand junk food and cheap magazines that all seemed to blend together. The fight was a pretty good distraction away from him, he could probably swipe a few things he needed. Then again, he actually had some cash for once, and he’d prefer to not get arrested until he was at least a little closer to finding his brother.

He grabbed some bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a carton of juice and walked up to the counter, waiting for the bickering to end. Luckily it seemed like he’d caught the tail end of it, the kid was already flipping them off and heading out the door.

“And you tell all your sticky little teenage friends to stay out of here too! We’re old, not blind!” the woman yelled at the already closed door. She quickly turned her attention back to Stan. “I’m so sorry about that, kids these days have no respect. I really ought to start calling the police on those pests. That’ll be three dollars, please.”

Stan wasn’t really sure if he was supposed to respond to any of that. He just handed her Ford’s twenty. He felt a twang of guilt, but Stan _had_ spent his remaining funds on the fuel he needed to get here, so the least Ford could do was spare him some food that wasn’t rotten. If indirectly.

The woman counted out his change and handed it to him.

“There you go dear. Have a pleasant night!”

“Oh uh, actually,” Stan cleared his throat, “I’m sort of looking for someone, maybe you know him?”

“Might! Practically everyone in town swings by here now and again,” the woman responded. Her name tag said ‘Ma’ but Stan refused to believe that was her real name.

“His name’s Stanford. Stanford Pines?” Stan said.

The woman turned to her husband, who simply shrugged.

“About yay big, glasses, looks uh… almost exactly like me?”

“Afraid not dear, sorry. I could ask around for you?” The woman asked with a voice that said she already knew it wouldn’t help.

“Nah, don’t worry about. He’s gotta be around somewhere. Thanks.”

Stan left the store. Maybe someone in the next one would be more helpful. Or the one after that. Or the one after that...

 

* * *

 

Stan slammed the door of the Stanleymobile with as much force as he could muster.

Hours. He'd been asking around town for _hours_ and had gotten almost no usable information whatsoever. Stan has to hand it to Ford, it takes quite the recluse to live in a town this small and somehow manage to keep his name out of all the gossip circles. He must’ve talked to half of the idiots in this town by now and no one had heard of ‘Ford Pines.’ When Stan asked all he got was 'never heard of him' or 'I might've seen him like four weeks ago buying eight packs of coffee grounds?' or 'wait, someone actually _lives_ in that cabin?'

Stan sighed, grip on the car door loosening.

He didn't want to get the police involved in this. He _really_ didn't. Cops were never any good in small towns, and Stan had a lingering feeling that any interactions he had with them would just get him kicked out of another state.

Stan tapped his steering wheel. Let’s see, he was by the museum right now (he couldn’t imagine what in this town could be marginally interesting enough to put in a museum). Maybe he could check with the library staff? Or that diner he drove past on the way into town? The problem was that it was getting dark out now, things were starting to close. Stan was running out of options.

"Moses. Ford, you're just one mystery after another aren't you?" he said to the open air.

He shoved his right hand into his pocket, and hit something solid. He pulled Ford’s tape recorder out of his pocket. Right, he’d forgotten he swiped it. He wondered if Ford had more of these tapes around his house, maybe ones with a less of a focus on research and more of a lean towards the personal. It wouldn’t surprise him, Ford had always had autobiographical tendencies. Stan’s mind wandered back to the diaries (or journals, as Ford would insist) that Ford had kept when they were kids. Hell, it wouldn’t surprise him if _this_ tape was half Ford monologuing what he’d had for breakfast.

He shoved the tape back into his pocket. He’d give it a listen after he scraped the absolute bottom of the barrel search-wise. Maybe he’d do the diner next? Why not.

Stan had backed out of his parking spot and begun driving forward when something leapt in his path. Stan reflexively slammed the breaks and felt his heart rate rise a couple dozen points.

It was a man. A man who was about a tenth of a second lucky, if how close he was to the car's hood was anything to go by. He held himself stiffly. He wore a disheveled collared shirt with a tie that looked like it was frustratedly tied into a knot, as if he had tried to tie it several times and eventually gave up. Bloodshot eyes stared right through the window, wide and determined and more than a bit on edge. If he hadn’t jumped in front of his car in the dark, Stan might have thought his appearance comedic.

The man slowly walked around the hood to Stan's window, never breaking eye contact.

Stan swallowed thickly. Should he take off? He'd gotten used to sensing trouble over the years, but he didn’t even need that intuition to know this man was trouble.

The stranger knocked twice on the glass. Stan opened the window a crack.

"Uh... Can I help you?" Stan asked, double checking that the doors were locked.

"You've been looking for him," the man said flatly. A statement, not a question. His voice had a slight southern accent, which he seemed to be making an effort to repress.

Stan nodded, silent.

The man glanced nervously around outside: left, right, behind him, then around the inside of Stan's car. He leaned closer to the window before speaking once more. "Meet me at that truck stop at the edge of town at 9. We'll talk."

With that, he took a few steps back and headed towards the museum.

Stan watched in stunned silence. Then he pushed his car door open and ran after the man.

"Hey!" Stan shouted.

The man disappeared from his view, ducking behind the museum.

"What... Who are you?" Stan called. "Where's Fo-"

Stan stopped dead in his tracks. He'd followed the man behind the museum. He _knew_ he saw him here.

The museum lot was empty.

 

* * *

 

Stan didn’t want to go back to Ford's house. He didn’t want to have to face the silence, but he still had a good two hours to kill before meeting up with... whoever that was.

By now, he had driven several laps around the whole town and found very little of interest. He supposed he could go to that pub he saw downtown, but he figured it would be best to talk to his one single informant while sober.

Stan drove until the town melted back into forest, and continued at a leisurely pace.

Damn, redwoods got big. They loomed overhead in a way that wasn't exactly threatening, but not entirely calming either. Their branches swayed softly.

Stan saw movement in the trees. An owl maybe? It was hard to tell. There were probably a lot around in a town this isolated.

Owls couldn't exactly explain away the oppressive feeling of being watched, though. He expected the drive to be calming, but he kept checking his mirrors as if he expected to see someone there. Had his run in with whats-his-face really made him this paranoid?

Stan opted to trust his gut and headed back into town.

 

* * *

 

Stan would love to say that he found another lead. He'd love to say he had anything else to go off of, that his brother had left some kind of trail behind. He'd love to even say he found Ford on the street, maybe just walking home from the store or something, but it didn't happen.

He didn't have any better ideas, and so he found himself sitting at a booth in a crappy Oregon dive just shy of nine o'clock, sipping on what was probably the world's most disappointing cup of coffee. Why did he even order this? Ugh, it doesn't matter.

According to a grimy pastel clock, it was 9:03 pm when a familiar figure slid into the opposite side of Stan's booth.

The man still looked like a mess, all wild eyes and ragged hair and fingertips tapping on the wooden table. He looked like he would turn and bolt like a rabbit at any sudden sound.

Stan expected him to speak first. He didn't.

"Uh..." Stan cleared his throat. "I guess we haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Stanley and you are... uh..."

"McGucket." The man said into the table.

"...Right. So uh, is jumping in front of random cars to deliver ominous messages a regular thing for you or uh..." Stan's eyes trailed back down towards McGucket's rapidly tapping index finger. It was a bit distracting, but not quite as distracting as how his eyes darted from face to face around the room, like he was looking for someone. Or maybe scared someone was looking for him.

Stan had yet to see the man be completely still. Whether it was a shaking leg or wringing hands or teeth gnawing on his bottom lip, he acted as if being in constant motion was his only means of survival. Like a shark with swimming, or something.

"Visitors, people passing through... he couldn't've reached 'em yet could he? _Should_ be safe... but then again..." McGucket mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

His expression was dreamy, like he wasn't aware Stan was there. "Nothing stays long, no strong ties made. In and out. We should be safe here..." he muttered to himself.

"Uh... yeah ok buddy, but do y-"

"Stanford. He's what you're here for." His voice was small and cold as ice.

“Yeah, you know where he is?” Stan asked, hope creeping into his voice.

"Did Ford have any imaginary friends as a kid?" The man asked abruptly.

"What?" Stan was too disoriented from the sudden change in topic to process the question.

"Y-ya know like, he ever talk to someone who wasn't there? That ya couldn’t see but he acted like was real? He ever get ideas from 'em?" He picked up a fork that was sitting on the table, possibly just to have something to occupy his shaking hands.

"I don't think so?" Stan recalled catching Ford talking to a picture of Nikola Tesla once or twice, but he doubted that what McGucket was referring to. "What’s this gotta do with anything?"

McGucket's shoulders seemed to loosen a bit with relief, but he still didn't meet Stan's gaze.

Stan sighed. "Look, if you're not going to tell me anything then..." Stan wasn't actually sure what 'then.' He moved to stand from their table when McGucket's silence was broken.

"He messed with things, Stanley. Things he should've left alone." His fork was hitting the table now, a steady taptaptaptaptap. "This is the way things even themselves out. It's natural."

“What do you mean ‘it’s natural.’ What is?” Stan said with a sharp edge to his voice.

"How long have you been in this town Stanley? A day... two? You like it here? Enjoyin’ the scenery?" His voice was laced with a bitterness that Stan did not understand.

Stan was silent, waiting for McGucket to continue.

"I know this town looks quaint and serene but it _ain't_ . Dark forces are at play here. There are... they watch you..." McGucket's fingers suddenly curled tightly around his fork, his fingernails digging into his skin. "Tried to warn him... they can’t be understood much less _tamed_." McGucket paused to take a shaky breath. "It's best to forget." He stood up from the table, dropping his fork and letting it clatter to the floor. "It's best for you to leave this place."

Stan watched in stunned silence as McGucket hurried out the door.

He stood up and ran after the man without even thinking about paying for his coffee.

The cold November air hit him like a punch in the face as he exited but he paid no mind, focusing only on the figure ahead of him.

"Hey!" he yelled. He ran towards McGucket. "Hey, you can't just _leave_ me with that!"

"Go home." McGucket said.

"Yeah, that’s gonna be difficult for a lot of reasons."

"Then just go _away_! This town's a sand trap, but you've still got a chance."

"I don't _give_ a damn! This isn't even making sense. Who even are you? You haven’t even told me how you knew him. _Did_ you even know him, or are you just fucking with me?”

“Does it matter?” McGucket said bitterly.

“Uh, yeah, it _does_. You can’t just drop in here and say a bunch of vague shit about Ford and then leave like that’ll answer anything. You're talking like the devil sprung from one of Ford's nerd books and dragged him away."

McGucket muttered something incomprehensible. Stan continued anyway.

"Look, he's in trouble. I'm not too stupid to piece that together. Was he arrested for something? Kidnapped? Was someone after him?” McGucket’s face gave no hint as to whether he was right about any of this, but he plowed ahead regardless. “I know the kinds of things that happen to people who stick their nose where it doesn’t belong and need to ‘disappear.’ Don't you wanna at least _try_ to help him? Isn't he your friend?"

McGucket noticeably stiffened. He stopped walking. "I don’t know what I was to him,” he said quietly. “Friend, colleague, pawn. It all blended together after a while.” He shook his head. “That doesn't matter. We can't risk retrieving him."

"Why the fuck not?!" Stan snapped.

"We can't fight back! Don't you get it?!" McGucket finally turned to face Stan, face a mix of anger and fear.

“No! I don’t,” Stan said, “and you know why I don’t get it?! It’s because you’re speaking in riddles like the world’s most fidgety sphinx.”

"It's better to leave the... the _unknowable_ parts of this town _be_." McGucket said with an edge of desperation.

“See? Point proven,” Stan said as he threw his arms up. He took a step closer to McGucket, his patience dwindling. “Now I’ll ask you one more time: Where. Is. Ford?”

McGucket stared vacantly at a point just behind Stan. A gust of wind blew past them, making Stan’s face sting. Small white specks were starting to gather on McGucket’s hair. In the heat of the argument, Stan must’ve not realized that it started to snow.

“I don’t know,” McGucket said softly. “I… I don’t know.”

Stan paused, letting the words sink in, and then turned to kick the handicap parking sign next to him as hard as he could. McGucket jumped at the sudden movement. This wasn’t fair. He just wanted to see his brother again. Just once, just to know he’s okay. Why was that too much to ask?

“I-I’m sorry. I mean it, I know it’s not the answer you wanted to hear. But please believe me when I say this: he’s not the man you once knew. He’s-”

“What happened to him?” Stan said, all the fight gone from his voice, “What did he do?”

Stan refused to face McGucket as he collected his thoughts.

“He… he made friends with the wrong people. Made deals that fell through. It… it changed him.” McGucket started to shiver. “I called him a modern Icarus…”

Stan thought back to all the pricey decor around Ford’s house. So this was about money? Business deals falling through, maybe? Stan couldn’t help but feel like he was missing some big, important piece of the puzzle. These ‘friends’ worried him. Was Ford still as gullible as he’d been when Stan knew him? Had someone taken advantage of that and led him into less than ethical projects? Had they manipulated him into whatever they had needed to make an extra buck?

“Who were these ‘friends’ exactly?” Stan asked, knowing he was probably not going to get any real information but willing to test his luck all the same.

“I don’t know,” McGucket said quietly.

“How do you not know?” Stan asked. “Don’t you at least have an idea? How would you know his deals fell through if you don’t even know who he was dealing with?”

“I don’t know, all the details are fuzzy I just…” McGucket’s voice trailed off as he rubbed at his temples. He took a deep breath. “Its best to forget,” he whispered.

“Is it?” Stan retorted. “No offense but you look like you got hit by a truck. Which seems likely considering our first meeting. Look he… he sent me a message just last week, he can’t be too far, right? We could at least _try_ to find him. Unless you think… they might’ve..." Stan couldn’t say it. He couldn’t even entertain the possibility that his brother was dead.

McGucket’s brow knotted in confusion. “Last… last week?”

“Yeah, look!” Stan pulled the postcard out of his pocket. It was a bit worn now, but still legible. “See?”

McGucket stared at the paper like he expected it to burst into flame. “I didn’t think… I thought he was gone a month ago.”

Stan tried not to think to hard about this particular definition of ‘gone.’ “Well, obviously he’s been around for longer. That’s worth at least checking out, right?”

Something clicked in McGucket’s mind and he shook his head wildly. “No, no I can’t-”

“Look, I’m not asking for a lot here-”

“We shouldn’t mess with-”

“You’re the only person I’ve met-”

“I won’t do this, its-

“who knows him I just-”

“I can’t _do_ this it isn’t-”

“McGucket, _please_.” Stan snapped, surprising McGucket into silence. "It's been ten years," Stan said quietly. "I just... I miss him."

The two stared at each other for a tense moment. McGucket's leg jittered a bit.

McGucket took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Me too," he said reluctantly.

"You'll help me find him, then?" Stan asked.

There was another pause.

“He _was_ your friend wasn’t he? Don’t you at least… don’t you want to at least know for sure?” Stan said.

It took a solid minute of silence, but McGucket nodded.

Stan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. "Great. So whatdya say we-"

" _But_ ," McGucket said sharply as he took a few steps forward, the anger in his voice almost palpable. "You need to _listen_ to me. You need to _believe_ me when I say something's too risky, and if I change my mind and want to leave him be, you let me. Got it?"

Stan stiffened at the sudden change in demeanor, but refused to step down.

"Sure," Stan said. "I promise."

 

* * *

 

It took a bit of convincing to get McGucket back to Ford's house. 'Convincing' meaning a lot of bickering, yelling, and Stan forcibly shoving McGucket into his car at one point. Eventually, though, McGucket relented. The last place Ford could be traced to was the only logical place to start.

Stan watched McGucket from the corner of his eye as he drove. As they got closer to the house he got even more jittery. There was more leg bouncing, more dashboard tapping, until he seemed to almost vibrate with anxiety. Once the house was in view, though, he suddenly froze. The silent tension was more unsettling than the fidgeting ever could be.

The snow was still coming down full force, a few inches coating the ground already, but the Stanleymobile carried on.

By the time they arrived it became clear that he and McGucket were going to have to stay for the night. Stan was already having trouble controlling his car through all the snow. As much as Stan disliked the idea of sleeping in his brother's house while he was MIA, he had to admit his budget didn't exactly allow for anything else, he’d probably do this even if the snow _hadn't_ fallen so heavily.

McGucket was still frozen in place when they arrived, and Stan felt silly as he mumbled reassurances trying to coax him out of his car. This man was still a stranger to him, no matter what he had been to his brother.

With the cold biting his skin, Stan resorted to taking McGucket's arm and guiding him out. He was tense as hell as they made their way to the door, but he didn't fight back.

After they passed through the front door, Stan expected McGucket to remain tense, to panic, to finally lose it and scream. He didn't.

McGucket locked eyes with one of the eye of the many providence symbols and wordlessly walked into the kitchen. Stan followed.

McGucket pulled a roll of duct tape out of a cabinet in a way that seemed methodical. He walked across the kitchen, covering the eye of an eye of providence carved into the wall with a duct tape X.

“Uh… What are you doing?” Stan asked.

McGucket silently moved onto the next symbol, covering its eye and acting as if Stan wasn’t even there. He did the same to every other symbol in the room, which made Stan realize that damn, there were a lot of those around that he hadn’t noticed before. Scribbled on floorboards, carved into walls, even little doodles peppered in his notes.

Just when Stan thought McGucket was done, he moved into the next room and did the same thing there. Then again in the next room. And again. And again…

Eventually they made it to the attic, where McGucket used the biggest strips of tape yet to cover the eye of the stained glass window Stan had admired earlier that day.

Once he was done, it was like he was a windup toy that had finished its run. He turned and dropped the roll unceremoniously on the ground before he collapsed onto the window seat, leaning forward with his head in his hands. Stan didn't realize the man was crying until a minute later, when a shaky breath from the man snapped him back to reality.

Stan stood there, dumbfounded. The further he got into this situation the more he felt like he was trying to read a book in a language he didn't understand. Or just a regular book he wasn't smart enough for.

...What the hell happened in this house?

He awkwardly placed a hand on the man's shoulder. He wasn't sure what else there was to do.

 

* * *

 

"Ya look just like him." McGucket mumbled from the couch, still clutching the glass of water Stan had handed him like a lifeline. Stan had moved them into what he could still only assume was Ford’s bedroom, since it was somehow the most livable and least cluttered room in the house. Luckily, it also seemed to be only room in the house McGucket didn’t think was actively trying to kill him, although he did make Stan pull up an ugly turquoise rug and triple check that he wasn’t carrying any static electricity. Stan still wouldn’t go as far as to say he looked comfortable in the room, but he’d take any improvement he could get to compulsive symbol-eye covering.

"Yeah, well that’s what happens with identical twins. Key word being 'Identical,'" Stan said as he sifted through yet another messy and useless drawer. If he was going to be stuck in this room he figured he might as well get familiar with it. Besides, Ford has to keep the rest of his tapes around here somewhere...

"Ford didn't really speak of you,” McGucket said as he pulled the blanket around his shoulders just a little bit tighter. “The first time I saw you I... I thought ya were a ghost."

That made Stan stop in his tracks. "... He really never mentioned me to you? Not once?"

McGucket said nothing, staring at his glass like he expected it to answer the question for him.

"...Guess I should've figured as much." Stan said as he tried to open another drawer on Ford’s desk. It wouldn’t budge, either stuck or locked.

“If it's any consolation, he barely spoke about his past at all. Wouldn’t’ve even known he was from New Jersey if I hadn’t pried it out of him,” McGucket said.

Stan relished in the fact that McGucket was actually speaking in proper nouns for once.

“Well to be fair, who wants to admit they’re from New Jersey?” Stan said.

McGucket released a breath in what was almost a laugh.

“‘Suppose,” McGucket said. “He just never seemed like a family man. Hardly ever called y’all’s parents and everytime I suggested finding a… someone to settle down and start a family with he’d brush it aside. Always focused on work…” McGucket squinted as Stan tore through another drawer. “Are you… are you looking for something?”

“I don’t know. Clues, I guess.” Stan said as he sifted through a draw which seemed to be about 50% rubber bands. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Ford’s tape recorder. “Finding the rest of these things would be nice,” he said as he held it up for McGucket to see.

McGucket stared for a moment before getting up and walking over to the desk. He opened a drawer and stuck his arm inside.

“Uh, I already checked th-” Stan was cut off by a loud click and the sound of the next drawer up shifting. Right, that was the one that Stan couldn’t get open. McGucket slid the drawer open, revealing it to be filled with microcassettes.

“Moses…” Stan muttered under his breath. There must have been at least forty. This was going to take longer than he thought.

“About half of them are empty” McGucket said, undoubtedly noticing the look of dawning horror on Stan’s face. “Most of them aren’t even used all the way through.”

“...You two were pretty close, huh?” Stan said. The Ford Stan knew wouldn’t have given access to something like this to just anyone.

“I knew him better than anyone,” McGucket said softly. “Just turns out that didn’t mean much.”

“Well, look on the bright side: once we find him you can yell at him about whatever he did all you want,” Stan said in a desperate attempt to lighten the mood. It’s not like he could come up with anything better to say, what with McGucket being so vague about the whole situation and all.

McGucket didn’t grace that with a response. In fact, Stan thought that dreamy look he had in the truck stop was starting to creep back onto his face. Not a good sign.

Stan clasped his hands together. “Welp, as much I’d love to sort through... all of those, it’s getting pretty late. Ford wouldn’t happen to have a spare mattress lying around, would he?”

“Don’t think so,” McGucket said. “I’d only ever find him on that couch or asleep on his work somewhere.”

“Ugh, Ford, why?” Stan muttered to himself. He plopped down on the couch. “Yeah, I’m gonna hit the hay. You probably should too,” Stan said, eyeing the bag’s under McGucket’s eyes.

“...In a bit.” McGucket said, still clutching the only blanket in the room around his shoulders.

Stan shrugged, laid down, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The first thing Stan saw was red. Just red, surrounding him on every side. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and pick up the darker shades of maroon cutting through the red haze, indicating folds, and even longer to pick up on the velvet texture that the redness carried with it.

Curtains. He was surrounded by curtains. All four sides of him, as if he was about to see four different plays go all at once.

Once that had been all puzzled out his eyes drifted down to what was probably the most nauseating floor he’d ever seen. Stan was suddenly very glad he didn’t stop at that pub today, the zig-zagging black and white pattern that danced across the floor would not be a fun thing to see while hungover.

The scent of a Douglas Fir permeated the air. Stan didn’t question how he knew that.

Stan sat in the middle of the increasingly dizzying room, in a comfortable yet unfamiliar chair. He wore a suit (how the hell did he afford one this nice?) and a face about twenty five years older than his own. He didn’t question how he knew that, either.

He glanced to his left to see that two other beings were now in the room with him (Or maybe they had been there the whole time? He wasn’t in a place to say). Both were seated on leather chairs similar to his own.

The first being, and the one closest to him, was a triangle with stick-like limbs and one big eye. He had no mouth, yet his features conveyed something smug and amused. He didn't wear a suit but his bow tie placed just a little bit below his eye, top hat balanced on his topmost angle, and cane perched against his armrest gave a cartoony impression of formality. The image of a stain glass window flickered through Stan’s mind, but the image disappeared almost as soon as it had formed.

The second figure resembled himself, at the age he could have sworn he had been before he’d entered (appeared in?) this room. He hadn't seen Ford in over ten years, long enough for the memories to blur and distort a little more than he was willing to admit, but could say with near certainty this man was his brother. His face, and even the way he held himself, mirrored Stan's clearest memories of his estranged sibling. Maybe-Probably-Ford wore a khaki trench coat, a neat black tie, and a vacant expression which somehow seemed forced.

The triangle was the first to break the silence.

"Ew llahs, ssenisub ot nwod teg stel," he said as he rubbed his hands together. His whole form seemed to glow with a soft light as he spoke.

"...What?" Stan asked.

"Ssenisub ot nwod teg stel, dias I," he responded, looking annoyed.

Stan stared at him.

The triangle cleared his throat (did he even have one?). "I said let’s get down to business, brainiac."

There was a long pause. Stan thought he saw movement in the curtains out of the corner of his eye. Just a slight rustle, but enough that he knew it had to be something more than a draft. He wondered if they were alone here.

"Already getting some of the puzzle pieces together, huh? You know you're gonna need the last three tapes if you’re gonna get anywhere," the triangle said.

Stan's gaze lingered back to his brother. He was only a seat away, closer than he’d been in far too long. Part of Stan wanted to reach out to him, just to be sure he was really there, but he stopped himself.

Ford’s eyes were firmly fixed on the floor ahead of him, acting as if Stan wasn’t even there. Acting as if nothing was around him at all, for that matter. The vacant expression remained on his face, but if Stan squinted he could swear that there was the hint of something wild in his eyes.

The triangle must have noticed Stan's staring.

"I see you've noticed my business partner. He looks just like your old pal fordsy, don’t you think?" He said in a voice too sickly sweet to be trusted.

"But that _is_ Ford," Stanley said as he glanced down at the man's hands. Six fingers on each. "Aren't you Stanford Pines?"

"I feel like him sometimes," Maybe-Ford said dreamily, "but sometimes our eyes are different." His voice was warped in a way stan couldn't put to words. It made Stan squirm a bit in his seat.

"Where we're from, sky is ground and strange is normal," The triangle said as he adjusted his tie. "You'll join us one day, if you're lucky."

This made Maybe-Stanford wince slightly. "Y-you have yet-"

"Up, up! still talking here." The triangle held a hand out in Ford's direction.

Ford's mouth immediately shut, his body noticeably stiffening.

The triangle turned his gaze back towards Stan.

"Just keep going kid, keep going. Did Jack the Ripper give up after just one kill? Did the Egyptians give up after just one pyramid?"

Silence enveloped the room once more.

Suddenly, the triangle snapped his fingers, and music began to emanate from an unknown source. Stan thought the song was familiar but couldn't quite place the name.

The triangle stood up and began taking rather jazzy steps in tune to the music, heading towards the opposite side of the room. For a while, the two men only sat, watching in silence.

Ford glanced from the triangle to Stan and back again. He stood up and walked cautiously over to Stan, as if worried every step would be his last. He then leaned down to whisper something in Stan’s ear.

"This is important," he began. "There is a natural gateway. The opening is..."

 

* * *

  
  
Stanley woke up with a gasp. For one frantic moment, he questioned why he wasn't in the backseat of his car. Then he glanced around his brother's old room and the memories slipped back into place. Stan took a deep breath to ground himself.

"Nightmare?" Stan jumped at the voice, calming down when he saw McGucket sitting on the opposite end of the L-shaped couch. From the sharpness of his voice and the stiff way he sat, Stan guessed McGucket hadn’t gotten much sleep since he’d drifted off, if any.

"Sort of." Stan rubbed his eyes. McGucket must have turned the lights off at some point, the room was pitch black save for the light that filtered in from one of Ford’s many stained glass windows.

McGucket’s face was only barely illuminated by whatever light reflected off the newly fallen snow. It was hard for Stan to make out any expression on his face, but something about his silence read as anticipation.

"Dreamt I saw Ford. He was sitting in this weird room with a... a square, maybe? _Some_ kind of shape…” Stan said. “Right before I woke up he whispered something about where to find him."

"Where did he say?" McGucket asked, his voice deathly serious and his face unreadable.

"I..." Stanley closed his eyes, as if hoping it would bring him closer to the dream that was already rapidly slipping from his memory. "I can't remember."

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, didn't think this would ever see the light of day. So basically this fic is like two or three years old, I found it on my phone and basically just gutted and rewrote the whole thing because I was bored and wanted it to be better. Hopefully its a bit more comprehensible now? Of course now that I'm about to hit publish I see a bunch of stuff I want to change about the pacing, and the order of events, but I'd prefer to not to wait another few years to publish this.
> 
> I always thought it would be interesting to combine the Gravity Falls and Twin Peaks worlds, but I could just never do it in a way that got it quite how I wanted it, so I pretty much just gave up. I want to say maybe I'll pick this up again since its the closest I ever got to what I wanted, especially since I found some old notes with some plot points I never touched in this, but considering how much I fucked myself over schedule-wise just for this it's not super likely. 
> 
> Anyway, please feel free to add comments! Totally unbetad so even something like pointing out a spelling error or saying 'oh god please use fewer commas' will help. 
> 
> SIDE NOTE: I don't why I chose that title. Like I said, this fic has been abandoned for over two years and any meaning behind it has become lost on me.


End file.
